We spent much of the next hour and a half catching up on how our families have been and reminiscing about when we were little and life was so much simpler. “Remember that time you sledded right over the creek and hit that tree on the other side?” she asked. “I can’t believe they just let kids sled down that hill with nothing to stop them from falling into the creek or hitting rocks. That would never happen today.”
“No kidding. They put up one of those orange plastic fences a few years after you moved. Not nearly as much fun.” I laughed at the memory. Even back then I had no fear.
We never even made it to a table. Instead, we just shared a few appetizers and another drink at the bar before I suggested we take dessert to go. I figured that would be a good way to gauge her interest level. If she was willing to take me back to her place, then she was probably interested in more than a walk down memory lane. And while I didn't want to be presumptuous, I was pretty sure if I could get her alone, I could at least get her partially naked. Hell, even a heavy make out session would be preferable to jacking off all night.
“We can,” she said hesitantly. “But I should tell you . . . this won’t be what you think.” For the first time since I’d greeted her, she seemed a little bashful, and I wasn’t sure why. “It’s just that I don’t have meaningless sex. I want to be in love first.”’
What the hell? Did I just hear her right? I am on a date with the fucking Virgin Mary. “So you’re a . . . you’re like a thirty-year-old virgin?” Real smooth, asshole. I heard my voice crack as I said it, and I knew she could hear the shock in my voice.
Her laugh told me I’d made more of a fool of myself than I’d originally thought. “No, Max, I’m not a virgin. But that doesn't mean I sleep around. I’ve been with two people, but I loved them both. It’s just kind of a thing with me, I guess.” She shrugged her shoulders and bit down on her bottom lip in the most sexy way.
Confusion spread across my face. “So what are you saying?”
“I’m saying . . . we can see what happens tonight. But no sex. Is that okay with you?”
Well only a complete douchebag would say no. And oral sex doesn’t actually count as sex, does it? “Sure, who said anything about sex?”
***
Mary’s apartment was only a few minutes away from the restaurant, so I decided to follow her in my car. Staying true to my resolution, I’d cut down on my drinking significantly, and only had two beers at the bar. I was happy I wouldn’t have to call a cab and worry about coming back to get my car in the morning, especially since I clearly wouldn’t be spending the night at Mary’s.
Somehow, in the few blocks we had to travel to her apartment, I’d managed to nearly hit a cat, forcing me to slam on the brakes. And in an effort to save the dessert in the passenger’s seat like I would a small child in an accident, I reached my hand across to catch it, only resulting in the tiramisu covering most of my hand and the sleeve of my sweater, along with the dashboard and floor mat. Real fucking smooth, jackass.
By some miracle, I was able to parallel park my car on Mary’s street without getting any of the tiramisu on the wheel. She parked her car across the street and started toward me. “Uh . . . could I grab a few paper towels from your apartment?” I asked, holding up my right arm. “There was a fatality on the ride here.”
“Sure,” she laughed. “Is it all over your car too?”
“Pretty much,” I smirked.
“Oh no. Come up, and you can clean up and then bring down some wet paper towels for your car. It’s probably not good to leave it on the leather too long.”
I followed Mary up the two flights of stairs to her apartment and into the kitchen, glancing around her apartment as I strolled through. For someone who had just moved in, her place was well put together. The living room was furnished tastefully: neutral furniture with a few splashes of reds and oranges to give it a less sterile feel.
“Here,” she said, grabbing my sweater at the bottom with both hands. “Take your shirt off, and I’ll throw it in the wash for you.”
I didn’t really care what she planned to do with my shirt once it was off of me. When a hot woman tells me to take off an article of clothing, it usually takes very little convincing for me to do so. I set the Styrofoam container on the counter and lifted my arms above my head, enjoying the feel of Mary stripping my shirt from me. As she stretched to reach up, her body inched closer to mine so that when she finally peeled my sweater over my head, our faces were nearly touching. Immediately, I felt the tension between us. Me: resisting the urge to pull her against me and inhale the scent of her flowery shampoo. And her: resisting the urge to let me.